


unexpectedly, from the beginning

by kagako



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Auguste Is Alive And Well, Awkwardness, Confessions, First Kiss, Florist Damen, Fluff, Language of Flowers, Lawyer Laurent, M/M, Slow Build, Texting, does damen have an aunt? he does now, or well laurent is an apprentice...., slow build.....as much as it can get in 6k words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagako/pseuds/kagako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Beautiful,</i> he thinks, and Laurent is only dimly aware he murmured the word aloud as Damen tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. “Sorry?” Damen says, and his smile is small and light—like the petals of the roses, like the summer breeze around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unexpectedly, from the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> hello! lets just start off saying i had a hell of a time writing this, this is my first time writing for CP and yeah i almost died okay. the books are so great and i just had to write something. this took me forever to write so please pardon me if its a little ooc and all around shitty
> 
> s/o & dedicated to annie for inspiring me to write this and for always yelling about CP with me.
> 
> pink roses: often given as an expression of beginning love or admiration, as it has a gentler meaning than their red counterparts.
> 
> two dozen roses: "i belong to you" or it may refer to the 24 hours in a day and say that "i think about you every hour."

The flower shop was beautiful—an old style, elegant arced doorway accompanied by a smooth oak door, an awning residing just above. The newly renovated exterior still held onto of what the building looked like decades ago: a soft gray brick, only but a canvas behind artistically arranged pots and basins of flowers. A vast window which showcased more potted flowers, a rainbow greeting the eye—though not in a harsh manner, as little snippets of the daily lives of the people inside came and went.

Laurent gazed at the shop from across the street, the delicate arrangements catching his eye. Upon the slowly swaying sign read _Aegina Floral_ in a refined, yet simple, loopy scrawl. Curiosity seems to rein him in as he crosses the street, and it takes Laurent a moment to catch his breath, the radiant colors blinding him briefly.

Soft, sickeningly sweet scents greet his nose—and Laurent sneezes once, twice, a fourth time before he finally staggers back, his eyes watering and his head a foggy mess. He faintly registers himself reaching inside his pockets for a handkerchief, _anything,_ before a small packet of tissues is offered to him. Instantly, Laurent plucks a few for himself, dabbing his nose as he blinks the fuzziness away.

“If you have that bad of allergies, you think you should be standing in front of a flower shop?” a man’s voice inquires, amused—but Laurent can hear a layer of worry behind the teasing.

“I’m fine,” Laurent says, curt.

“You sure?” the man asks, doubtful.

He opens his mouth, a cold retort on his tongue, annoyance making his brow twitch—and Laurent stops short. His eyes are greeted by tan skin, a mass of dark curls and dark chocolate eyes, and the bouquet of pale pink roses the man—Damen, his nametag says—holds in his hands should bring out a harsh comparison, but in all reality it’s beautiful. The sight is beautiful. Laurent can feel his face flush a shade similar to the roses, and the moment seems to freeze in time as the breeze blows his hair, as it stings his wide, unblinking eyes.

_Beautiful,_ he thinks, and Laurent is only dimly aware he murmured the word aloud as Damen tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. “Sorry?” Damen says, and his smile is small and light—like the petals of the roses, like the summer breeze around them.

Laurent averts his gaze, shakes his head as if refusing the man had heard his uttered compliment. “Nothing,” he reassures, then brings his eyes to Damen’s own. “Thank you for…” A pause here, as he considers: “…your kindness.”

Damen blinks, his smile only faltering a little before it tugs wide once again. He scratches his nose, and Laurent has to suppress the urge to snicker as it leaves a smudge of dirt on the bridge of Damen’s nose. “I’m sorry for teasing you,” Damen apologizes, turning slightly to set the pink roses in the water basin, arranging the colors. “Inhaling the scents all at once is overwhelming, even for me, as long as I’ve worked here.”

“Of course,” Laurent says, simply enough. He stands casually; watching as Damen’s skilled hands gently but effectively arrange bouquets around in water basins, how his fingertips all but brush against petals to clear dirt, making them all the more presentable to the eye.

“So,” Damen says, turning his back to the flowers. They seem dim in comparison as Laurent shifts his gaze upward, light blue eyes meeting dark brown. “What are you looking for today?”

It’s Laurent’s turn to tilt his head, a _sorry?_ escaping his lips.

“Flowers.”

“Oh,” Laurent says, and shifts from foot to foot. He opens his mouth once more to say _no, not today,_ but what comes out is: “Yes. Do lead the way.”

Inside, the walls are a mass of color. From the ceiling, baskets hang just shy of people’s heads, vines and leaves dangling from the edges easily. There were flowers Laurent has never seen, and some he could just barely identify: carnations of purple, white, and pink—daffodils a brighter shade of Laurent’s hair—hydrangeas that radiate soft blues and bright oranges.

He could go on hours, but as Damen turns toward him, a proud grin on his face, Laurent thinks he could stare at the florist for hours, instead.

“Welcome to Aegina Floral,” Damen says, his arms outstretched, wide, on either side of him.

Laurent brings his hand to his mouth, covering a snicker and a smile.”Thank you,” he says, “for the belated welcome.”

Damen rolls his eyes, but with no ill intent. Then, he laughs: “Always a pleasure, sir.”

“Laurent,” he corrects, and has to press his lips together to fight a smile at the way Damen stops short.

“Huh?”

“Laurent,” he says again, raising a brow. “My name is Laurent.”

“Oh,” Damen breathes, shakes his head as if in some sort of daze. “Nice to meet you, Laurent,” he says, offering his hand. Damen’s smile—his presence—is still outranking the surrounding flowers and their brilliant colors.

Laurent gives his own smile, and he can feel the honesty in it as his eyes crinkle, just slightly. He takes Damen’s hand, circling his fingers to fit against the warm, dark hand in front of him. “The pleasure is mine, Damen,” Laurent says, and he has to fight the swell of exhilaration he gets when the name rolls off his tongue.

They stand there, hands clasped as patrons and workers buzz around them, in their own little world. Laurent knows his hand will be dirtied by the soil on Damen’s hands, but he can’t bring himself to care. His smile remains pleasant; he keeps his breathing in check. It’s only when he feels a pulse drumming between their hands that he politely pulls back, fights to keep himself collected.

_Mine? His?_

“Oh,” Laurent says then, as if it suddenly came to mind. The corners of his mouth twitch at Damen’s undivided attention, and Laurent can feel himself grow warm under the other’s unwavering gaze. Slowly, he brings his index finger to the bridge of his nose and taps gently. “You’ve got dirt on your nose.”

_“What?”_ Damen gasps, ducking his head as he covers his nose. Laurent watches him rub away the dirt vigorously, amusement in his eyes as Damen scowls at him. “Why didn’t you say anything _sooner_?”

It only elicits a velvety laugh from Laurent’s lips.

***

_Beautiful,_ he had heard Laurent say. _Beautiful._

Damen feels as though he’s drifting on air when Laurent leaves Aegina Floral with a small flick of his wrist as a wave and a smile as bright as dawn could ever hope to be. He doesn’t even mind it when a little boy runs into a pot of hibiscus flowers—especially not when the pot breaks and the soil spills onto the floor.

Okay—so he’s a little irritated because he had planted those flowers and brought them to life with water, sunlight and well honed patience; but the moment Laurent’s small smile blooms in his mind, Damen can’t fight the grin that tugs on his lips, or the way his chest seems to tighten.

_Beautiful,_ Laurent had said, with wide eyes and pink cheeks.

_Beautiful,_ Laurent had said, blue irises locked with dark brown ones.

Damen lets out a giddy laugh, a rush of emotions dizzying him for a second longer than necessary. His smile is content (even as he gets wary glances from costumers) as he tends the flowers—roses, carnations, tulips and lilies… and then his eyes settle upon a decorative pot filled with forget-me-not’s.

The likeness is almost uncanny—yet something about it is so real that Damen can’t help but indulge a little. He imagines Laurent, his cheeks pink and eyes downcast as he allows Damen to arrange forget-me-not’s in his hair. Damen imagines himself making Laurent a blue and specked-yellow crown, laughing when his imaginary Laurent presses his lips together in a fine line. He’s embarrassed, but Damen tells him just as shyly that it is a good look on him—that he could stare for hours, centuries, if Laurent would let him.

When his imaginary Laurent rolls his eyes, Damen laughs, and he takes it upon himself to cup Laurent’s pale skin in his hands, his fingertips sliding against soft, fine hair. Their noses bump together when they hesitantly close the distance, and Damen’s name is all but a ghost on Laurent’s lips before they mutually join their lips together.

The clatter of the spray bottle hitting the floor pulls Damen out of his daydream. He blinks once, then a second time before he feels heat spread across his cheeks. Patrons give him more wary looks as he drops to scramble for the bottle, though he barely registers their lingering stares. Damen stays balanced on the balls of his feet, standing the bottle upright between his bent legs. He brings a hand to his face, rubs his forehead before he tries, unsuccessfully, to wipe away the heat gathered so delicately on his face.

_Beautiful,_ Laurent had called him.

***

Laurent makes his way to Aegina Floral for the eighth day in a row. Auguste had teased him endlessly for coming home smelling like flowers and sunlight for three days straight—but on the fifth day, a bright, steady-breezed Saturday, he gave Laurent a small, knowing smile and simply bid him farewell. The look his brother gave him made Laurent squint his eyes, as if to challenge Auguste, but the elder did nothing but steady his smile and keep his eyes passive.

He can smell the flowers from a block away. He can see a tall man—dark skin contrasted beautifully against the white of his shirt, against the billow of vibrant flowers. Laurent has to control the speed of his stride as he watches the light breeze ruffle Damen’s dark curls.

Soon, he comes to a stop, all too content to stand and stare.

_Beautiful,_ Laurent thinks, and as if on cue, Damen turns around—all bright eyes and wide smiles.

“You haven’t been sneezing lately,” Damen points out, a teasing smile settling in. “How am I supposed to know when you arrive?”

“I have sharpened my skills well.”

Damen laughs and rolls his eyes. “Come on.”

Laurent’s smile is effortless as he follows Damen inside.

***

They’re side by side, shoulder to shoulder, when Damen asks, “You think we could exchange numbers?”

Laurent doesn’t let the surprise show on his face, nor does he allow his hands to pause in their task. He continues to weed out the withered flowers just as Damen does, though he does allow himself a brief pause to tuck his hair behind his ear.

“Yes. I don’t see why not,” Laurent says, and he’s proud of how well he controlled his voice.

“Oh, really?” he hears Damen say, relieved. There’s a timid laugh before Damen speaks again. His tone is careful. “I’m glad. I enjoy talking to you, like this.”

Laurent gives an easy hum, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “As do I. I feel... strangely drawn to you,” he says—and he’s surprised of himself. He's only so rarely voiced such intimate thoughts—being so honest with another person like that, he wonders momentarily if he’s catching a virus, or if he's dying. Quickly, Laurent clears his throat as if to dispel his previous words; he ignores the fierce heat that swells in his face. He ignores Damen’s unwavering, wide-eyed stare. “I’m afraid I’ll grow busier with my work,” he says, taking caution in the way this tongue forms each syllable. “So I won’t have a lot of spare time to leisure around here.”

 “Oh? What’s your profession?” Damen asks, his voice unchanging. Laurent sends him silent thanks.

“Ah, I’m still in law school,” Laurent clarifies. “My older brother is a lawyer, and I am… I suppose I’m sort of his apprentice for now.”

That seems to catch Damen off guard, as Laurent can see out of the corner of his eye that the tanned hands have grown still. “How old are you?”

“I am twenty-one.”

When Damen doesn’t reply, Laurent turns his attention to the other man. What he sees there is blinding. “Seriously?” Damen says, and he sounds breathless. “That’s—you’re—extraordinary.”

“What?” Laurent says, incredulous. He can feel heat rise to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, and he suddenly regrets tucking back his hair. “No. I’m hardly—“

Damen’s laugh cuts him off. “No need to be humble on my account.”

Laurent presses his lips together, but says no more, until—“What… inspired you to be a florist?”

Once again, Damen’s hands still in their tasks. Laurent almost looks away, clears his throat and murmurs for the other man not to worry until Damen speaks. “This… is my mother’s shop. Or, it was. She had died not too long after I was born. My aunt, she took over the shop until I was old enough to be given it—five years ago, when I was twenty, she handed me the keys. As a child, my aunt always spoke of my mother and her love of flowers.”

The gentle expression on Damen’s face was enough to make Laurent’s fingers ache—desperately, he wants to graze his fingertips on the soft skin beneath Damen’s eyes, along the strait of his nose and the edges of his lips. Instead, Laurent keeps his hands still and his eyes on Damen’s profile. “I apologize.”

But Damen only laughs, a carefree sound that resonates throughout Laurent’s veins and accompanies his heartbeat. “You don’t have to. Being in here… around these flowers, where my mother cared for them and smiled… it makes me feel closer to her. It makes me feel content.”

Laurent only gives a small hum in reply, his lips a faint smile as he averts his eyes to the basins of flowers in front of them.

Neither of them knows how much time passed as they sat there, shoulder to shoulder, plucking withered flowers. Occasionally, their hands brush, and bumps of shoulders come between them like a steady ocean wave. Both of them feel the electric shock whenever they touch.

Finally, Laurent speaks. “Might I purchase a bouquet of flowers?”

“Oh? Interested in flowers now?” Damen’s tone is teasing.

Laurent rolls his eyes. “I haven’t gotten a chance to purchase your flowers until now. They are fine flowers, all of them. Exceptionally taken care of.”

“What are you looking for?” Damen asks, after a laugh.

“I don’t know,” Laurent says. He turns to look at the other man, and his face flushes in anticipation of his next words and his own hidden intent behind them. “I…am not a skilled florist, as you are. Why not make me a bouquet?”

Laurent watches as Damen’s eyes widen, as he opens his mouth and then closes it. He can faintly hear the shaky breath that Damen finally exhales, and soon what slips through Damen’s mouth is an equally shaky laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “It’d be my pleasure.”

Half an hour later, Damen watches Laurent leave the shop with a bouquet of his own personal favorite flowers. The sight makes his heart jump—something about it is so tender, in the way Laurent’s steps seem careful, in the way his hands gently hold the bouquet as if it were more precious than a rare jewel. He’s got a smile on his face as he pulls out his cell phone, opening up a blank message.

_[Damen]: Take care of them well! I put my heart and soul into that bouquet!_

A couple minutes later, his phone buzzes.

_[Laurent]: Who do you think you’re talking to? Of course I will. This bouquet deserves the finest treatment._

He smiles down at the screen, a soft laugh slipping through his lips.

_[Damen]: Of course, I leave them in your capable hands. Im sure the flowers will be pleased with their new home_

A moment later—

_[Laurent]: You speak to the flowers? Or rather, you understand them?_

_[Damen]: Yes, to both. When I handed them over, they seemed to brim with life even more than usual. They were happy_

_[Laurent]: Strange. I thought the opposite._

Damen lets out a strangled breath, biting the insides of his cheeks to fight the persistent smile. Even though he’s fully aware he’s deliberately _flirting_ with Laurent—Damen hadn’t expected anything back. The brush of their hands, bumping their shoulders together, the way he lingers his gaze and the way he notices Laurent do the same. His senses feel like fire and his brain feels like mush.

_I’ve got a crush,_ Damen thinks, and he knows it sounds silly, as if he’s but a young teenager and lost in the clouds of his mind—but Damen also knows it’s true. There is no other way to explain the tug in his chest, or the way his face flushes when he feels Laurent’s eyes on him. There is no other way to explain the urge to cup Laurent’s face in his hands, to skim his fingertips along Laurent’s cheeks, under his eyes; how he wants to kiss Laurent’s eyelids, only to trail downward to brush their lips together—to pull back only for Laurent to follow in earnest.

He inhales shakily, the nerve endings in his fingertips sending sparks throughout his body as he types back his reply.

_[Damen]: I’m glad_

***

“Huh?” Auguste says, stopping short in front of the open door of Laurent’s room. “No flower shop today either, little brother?”

Laurent lolls his head towards Auguste, giving him a steady look before simply saying, “Not today.”

He averts his gaze back to the ceiling, his brows just ever so slightly narrowed in thought. _I’m glad,_ Damen had said. _I enjoy talking to you. When I handed them over, they seemed to brim with life even more than usual. I’m glad._ Laurent feels his chest tighten, and he fights to keep his expression neutral under his brother’s watchful eye. His efforts seem to be in vain as Laurent watches Auguste enter the room from the corner of his eye.

“Uh-oh,” he says, settling himself on the edge of Laurent’s bed. Auguste looks down at Laurent, who is lying down on the bed, hands tangled comfortably atop the clean linen of his button-down shirt, his ankles crossed at the foot of the bed. He looks comfortable enough, but there’s a tension in Laurent’s muscles that Auguste knows all too well. “It looks as if you are over thinking something. More so than usual.”

Laurent gives an easy hum, but gives his brother no more. Auguste watches Laurent—the way the rise and fall of his brother’s chest seems to be too calculated, too controlled; the tense set of Laurent’s jaw, and the hard look in those blue eyes that makes his brother look downright frightening. Auguste raises an eyebrow, takes a glance at the vase of flowers that’s on the nightstand.

“Did you and that florist have a fight? It’s been a few days since you’ve gone.”

“Of course not,” Laurent says, too quickly.

Auguste chuckles, the corners of his mouth lifting in a victorious smirk as Laurent heaves a sigh. “Oh?”

“I am not lying. I just need time to think.”

“He confessed?” Auguste says, fluttering his lashes and setting a hand over his heart. “Oh dear, are we going to gossip?”

_“No.”_

“No? He didn’t confess? Then I think you definitely should, Laurent.”

_“Auguste,”_ Laurent grits out. He props himself up on his elbows, leveling a scowl at his brother. “If you entered my room only to make jokes at me, I suggest you leave.”

“Oh?” Auguste ponders, crossing his legs and rubbing his chin. He meets Laurent’s glare easily, flashing a taunting smile. “Dear brother, were you going to come to me for love advice?”

Laurent presses his lips into a fine line and says nothing. He _absolutely_ does not want to admit that: yes, he was genuinely thinking about asking Auguste for advice, albeit, very vaguely. Laurent knows his brother has far more experience than himself. His brother is out-going and seems to have an ever present, fresh air about him that attracts people—and Laurent… he was more than content to read or study  in a quiet place, avoiding interactions unless it was absolutely vital.

He admits that the vivid flowers in front of Aegina Floral were his only interest, at first. They were beautiful against the light gray brick, and something about it stirred something in his chest: they were well cared for, and he admired that. He admired the person that brought life to such beauty. It seemed cruel, to Laurent, that the person responsible wasn’t equally beautiful, but instead more enticing than the flowers themselves.

Damen was warm—his smile open and inviting, his eyes unwavering and there was something that Laurent saw, deep in those eyes, that he couldn’t put into words. Laurent had watched him closely those few eight days, and found no ulterior motive, no false presentation in Damen’s warmth, his eyes, or the smile that greeted Laurent and saw him off when Laurent left the shop.

_Had it truly only taken me eight days to fall in love?_

Lost in his thoughts, Laurent hadn’t noticed the soft flush that dusted his face. He clears his throat, presses the back of his hand to his lips. He can feel Auguste’s eyes on him, following his every move: to the pulse in his neck, to the slight tremble of his fingers; nothing misses Auguste’s attentive stare. Laurent chances a glance at his brother, and he’s only somewhat surprised at the tender look he receives.

“You…” Auguste begins, and then takes a moment to consider his words. Laurent knows his brother will tease him, even before Auguste opens his mouth to finish his sentence: “… have a crush?”

But Laurent only groans and nods his head in utter defeat. He squeezes his eyes shut as the flush on his face deepens, as if it’ll shield him from Auguste’s sight. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I have a crush on the man working at the flower shop. I have a _crush_ on Damen.”

“Damen, huh.”

“Yes. That is his name,” Laurent says in a rush. He clenches his hand into a fist, covers his eyes with his forearm. “With him, nothing feels forced. He is comforting to be around. I lied to him and told him I would be busy with my apprenticeship, and we exchanged numbers. I’ve begun to notice I can’t think clearly. The flirting—I—we,” he pauses here, his voice strained. His face burns. He can feel Auguste’s eyes on him, but he knows it’s a tender gaze. “Can you believe it?”

“What is it, Laurent?”

Laurent lets out a sharp laugh and then sighs. He feels absurd, pouring his heart out as if he were a little boy again. The feeling remains in the pit of his stomach as he lets his arm fall sideways, hanging from the edge of the bed. He forces himself to meet Auguste’s gaze before speaking again. “Can you believe that it only took eight days for me to…become this… _smitten_?”

Auguste laughs—soft, with no heat. He does not intend to make fun of Laurent, to tease him endlessly until Laurent threatens to accidentally put his good ties in the paper shredder. After a moment, he lets out an amused hum. “It seems to me it happened earlier than eight days.”

“Love at first sight?” Laurent scoffs, and rolls his eyes. “That’s a bit ridiculous, Auguste.”

“Is it, though?” Auguste wonders aloud, winking at Laurent after a moment.

There’s a silence in the room as Laurent stares at the ceiling, as Auguste stares at Laurent. Auguste takes another glance at the bouquet of flowers, then at the lingering flush of his brother’s face. “You shouldn’t over think it,” Auguste says then, breaking the silence.  “Love and flowers are similar, yes? Both begin to bloom at the sight of light. Both are vulnerable to such a light.”

“How very cheesy of you, brother.”

Auguste laughs, shrugs his shoulders. “Still. You shouldn’t over think it. You know what you want, don’t you? Do not over calculate it.”

There’s another silence—but before either can break it, the soft chime of Laurent’s phone fills the room. Immediately, Laurent looks over, and Auguste doesn’t miss the light in his brother’s eyes. He only gives a brief pat to Laurent’s knee before hoisting himself up. “It should be obvious what to do now, right?”

Laurent rolls his eyes. “Don’t be meddlesome, brother.”

Auguste laughs as he reaches the door. “You were going to ask for advice anyway, right? I am not meddling. Just being helpful,” he says, before he closes the door behind him.

***

_[Damen]: It’s been so busy lately, but I guess that’s natural for mid-summer huh? How are you? Not over doing it, are you Laurent?_

The corners of Laurent’s lips twitch upward in a troubled smile. He lets out a hum, furrows his brows together as he stares down at Damen’s words. There’s an unspeakable heaviness in the pit of his stomach that Laurent barely registers as guilt—though he knows he couldn’t have just left Damen to his own devices.

_I… have a crush,_ Laurent thinks, and he knows it sounds ridiculous: he’s a twenty-one year old man, and yet he’s so captivated by another person. He’s dreamed about Damen—about his fingers tangled with dark curls, about lips pressed against his jaw and about his hands splayed against the dark skin of Damen’s chest, moving along with the rise and fall of the other’s breathing. Damen’s smile is imprinted within his eyelids, and his laugh is a pleasant tune in the back of his mind.

_[Laurent]: Shouldn’t I be asking you that? Though, I suppose you make it look easy, Damen._

_[Damen]: I wouldn’t say that.  I’m fine though, it isn’t anything I’m not used to. But what about you?_

Laurent licks his lips absentmindedly, the heaviness in his stomach seeming unbearable. It takes him a moment to respond—to persuade himself to tell the truth. Laurent knows Damen deserves no less, even if the words will be vague.

_[Laurent]: I am troubled, but it isn’t anything I’m not used to._

_[Damen]: Tough case?_

The message evokes a sharp laugh from Laurent. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he types his message back. _You have no idea,_ he thinks.

_[Laurent]: Yes, you could say it is something like that._

Ten minutes later, his phone gives a soft, repetitive chime.  He blinks down at his phone, momentarily frozen by Damen’s name, accompanied by his contact picture: the vase of roses the man himself had put together. Hurriedly, Laurent taps where he thinks the green circle on his phone screen is as he brings it to his ear.

“Laurent,” Damen says, and Laurent swears up and down it’s been too long since he’s heard his name from the florist’s lips.

“Damen,” he greets, willing his voice to steady. There’s a newly formed sheen of sweat on the back of his neck as he listens to Damen’s slow breathing. His skin seems to prickle in anticipation. “Is there something you need?”

“When will you be free?” Damen asks, strained.

Laurent quirks an eyebrow, tries to suppress the shiver that dances down his spine. He knows he doesn’t have to—Damen isn’t here, there is no one in the room other than himself—but there’s something in Damen’s voice that makes this phone call seem so much more than measly, trivial.

“Within the next few days, I wager,” Laurent says carefully.

“Next week, on Wednesday, the shop closes early,” the florist explains. Laurent doesn’t miss the shaky intake of breath, even through the receiver. “Maybe we could… you could come over.”

Laurent blinks at Damen’s offer, and his next words leave his mouth before he has a chance to stop them.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yes,” Damen says immediately.

Laurent drops his phone as if it’s on fire—then scrambles for it to make sure he didn’t imagine the entire conversation. Surely, he muses, his mind isn’t that cruel. His eyes widen at the sound of Damen’s unsteady breathing on the other side of the line. “You are asking me out on a date?” Laurent asks again, and then immediately curses himself at how breathless he sounds.

“Yes,” Damen repeats _,_ as simple as that. Laurent can hear the smile in Damen’s voice—tender and patient.

His face flushes a shade of pink, and the shiver he had suppressed so well slips through the cracks in his defense. An easy smile takes over, a light laugh leaves his lips—and he thinks that, yes, he’s truly never met anyone such as Damen before.

“A date it is.”

***

Laurent stands in front of Aegina Floral for the first time in—how many days? He isn’t too sure, nor does he care as his eyes settle upon the long window that showcases the flowers, strangely even more beautiful in the orange glow of the sunset. He can feel the corners of his lips tug upward in a content smile, and suddenly he comes to the realization that this feels normal.

The way he stands, relaxed and yet buzzing with nervous anticipation, the way the sunset radiates a warm glow on the flowers and how it seems to seeps into the back of his white button-down. The gentle breeze, just strong enough to sway his hair only a little, the lingering scent of flowers that leaves a familiar tickle in his nose.

He’s not prepared when he sneezes—loud and only slightly muffled as he brings the crook of his elbow to his mouth at the last second. Laurent also isn’t prepared for the hearty laugh that greets his ears, but once his eyes settle on the source he cannot bring himself to glare.

“I thought you sharpened your skills, Laurent?” Damen asks by way of greeting, laughter mingling with his words. He’s tilting his head, leaning against the chain link door that Laurent assumes blocks off the alleyway to the side of the shop. Laurent furrows his brows, wonders how long Damen stood there, watching him, but he says nothing.

“Is that any way to greet your date?” Laurent inquires instead; just as curt as the first time they met, in front of the flower shop. Just like then, Damen steps forward to offer him a small packet of tissues. He’s reluctant when he reaches for some, but takes a few nonetheless.

“Are you cancelling our date, then?” Damen asks, his eyes following Laurent’s movements.

Laurent raises a brow, takes a glance at the smile Damen is trying so desperately to hold back. He just barely fights back his own smile. “I could,” he says flatly, and pauses long enough to witness the fall in the florist’s expression. Laurent gives in, his own little smirk surfacing. “Luckily for you, I don’t think I want to.”

It only makes Damen’s laugh all the more deafening.

***

Laurent follows Damen through the alleyway—and pauses short at what he sees.

“Beautiful,” he says simply, blue eyes wide and mouth slightly agape in awe.

“Huh?” Damen says. He can hear the teasing in Damen’s tone. “What’s beautiful?”

Laurent can feel the heat rise in his cheeks as the other’s words—the tone, the meaning—becomes a realization. He closes his mouth as if suddenly aware of it having been open in amazement. Laurent clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from the wide greenhouse, from the faint billow of colors he can see through the orange glow that casted itself among the see-through walls.

“The greenhouse,” Laurent informs him coolly, his voice only a little shaky.

“Oh?” Damen hums and Laurent can hear the slight disappointment nestled there. However, the teasing tone is back, along with a sense of sincerity and warmth. “Strange. I thought the opposite.”

Laurent lets out a breath, exasperated. He closes his eyes, brings a hand to his temple. “You—Damen—“

Damen’s laugh cuts him off, and he opens his eyes once the laughter gets closer.

He’s truly beautiful in front of the fiery glow of the sunset—oranges and yellows and tints of reds casting him in a light that Laurent finds comforting. Damen seems big and warm in front of him, his smile easy and content and Laurent can’t find a hidden meaning in the way Damen’s eyes crinkle just slightly the bigger that smile gets. Suddenly it’s as if Laurent hadn’t had a retort on his tongue in the first place, even as Damen lets out a breath of a lingering laugh.

“I’m sorry for teasing you,” Damen apologizes anyway, offering Laurent his hand, palm up.

Laurent stares for a moment, his eyes going to Damen’s own and then to the palm of his hand. He can feel his lips quirk into a smirk as he tilts his head, his gaze watching the movement of his own hand. Laurent settles the palm of his hand atop of Damen’s, and he isn’t surprised to discover that the florist’s hand is warm and soft. He lets out a hum, not missing the way Damen’s eyebrow raises as Laurent steps forward.

“It’s only fair,” Laurent tells him, close enough to comfortably manipulate their hands. Easily, he slides his fingers in between the empty spaces of Damen’s own. “I lied, after all.”

“You lied?” Damen asks, but he doesn’t sound angry. Instead, he squeezes Laurent’s hand, briefly brushes his thumb against the delicate skin of Laurent’s hand. In the back of his mind, he hopes Laurent can’t feel the beat of his heart or the flush of his face.

“You are more beautiful than the greenhouse,” Laurent tells him, the corners of his lips twitching. He turns his head, looks up at Damen’s now widened eyes. His tone is uneasy, as if he shouldn’t be confessing the intimate thoughts. “The first day we met, as well…” he trails off, pausing as he works up the nerve to continue. Laurent averts his gaze, squeezes Damen’s hand. When he speaks, he takes great care to control his voice. “You were more beautiful than the flowers. I—I’m sure you heard.”

Laurent doesn’t miss the florist’s embarrassment, even from the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” Damen says honestly, scratching his nose out of habit. There’s a giddy laugh before he speaks again. “I had heard. Sorry about that.”

“It’s only fair,” Laurent repeats simply, and before he can begin to feel embarrassment himself, he steps forward, bringing Damen along by the hand. “Let’s go, then. It’s about time you begin to woo me.”

***

“So,” Damen begins, and then takes a pause to settle his gaze on Laurent’s profile. _Beautiful,_ he thinks, and Damen is thankful that the embarrassment is barely there, safe for the flush on his face and the spike in his heartbeat. Damen clears his throat when he realizes Laurent’s gaze is now locked with his own, the flowers he had been fawning over seemingly less interesting now. The sweat between their clasped hands builds up, but neither of them pulls away. “Am I wooing you yet?”

“I wonder.”

“What? I’m being serious.”

Laurent laughs airily.

“Or…” Damen says, and squeezes Laurent’s hand. His smile is effortless as he guides them through the backdoor of the greenhouse. Both of them inhale deeply, the air less humid and comforting. They take a moment to look at the sky—the sun had fully set while they’d been together in the greenhouse, leaving behind a dark canvas bright with stars and a crescent moon. When Damen continues, he keeps his eyes on the night sky. “Maybe you were wooed to begin with?”

Laurent snorts, ducks his head as if it’ll hide the flush that surfaced on his cheeks. When he feels Damen’s eyes on him, Laurent manages a snort, and gives Damen the same words he gave to his brother. “That’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?”

“Is it?” Damen asks, causing Laurent to look over alarmingly. If this was anyone else, Laurent would accuse them of somehow finding a way to eavesdrop. The look in Damen’s eyes is indescribable as he turns, facing Laurent fully. Damen squeezes his hand and smiles as he feels the action being reciprocated. “At least, I was—ah— _wooed_. To begin with, I mean. By you.”

_“Ah,”_ is all Laurent can manage. His eyes are wide as they settle on Damen, and the florist is only barely visible in the soft glow of the night sky. It’s unfair, Laurent thinks: no matter what light he’s seen Damen in, the guy is always beautiful, always manages to make Laurent force down the impulses to touch him. Except, this time, Laurent doesn’t tune them out.

He slips his hand from Damen’s grip, and the florist only has a moment to be surprised before Laurent’s fingertips graze gently at the soft skin beneath Damen’s widened eyes. His thumbs rub against Damen’s cheekbones for a moment before Laurent drops a hand to Damen’s shoulder, and lets his other hand settle against Damen’s skin, palm to cheek.

“I can see the stars in your eyes,” Laurent blurts out, and he’s greeted by a rush of warmth from Damen’s face. The corner’s of his lips twitch as he watches the florist narrow his eyes, but with no ill intent.

“Aren’t I supposed to be wooing you?” Damen asks, his hands coming up to settle on Laurent’s forearms. He fights to keep his breathing steady as he inclines his head, bringing his forehead to rest on Laurent’s. It feels surreal to him, touching Laurent like this when he’s only ever imagined it—but the warmth is real, and the way his hands fit against Laurent feels all too _right_ for this to be a daydream.

Laurent quirks an eyebrow, even though Damen can’t see it. He slips both hands from Damen’s shoulder and cheek to the back of the florist’s neck, his fingers tangling with a mess of curly hair. “I wonder,” Laurent murmurs, and there’s a huff of laughter against his face before he feels Damen’s lips against his own.

It leaves him breathless before it even ends. Damen is gentle—his lips slow and soft against Laurent’s own, so much that it makes his chest ache for more. His hands become fists in Damen’s hair, and there’s a shiver running through his spine when Damen’s hands venture to Laurent’s waist. Laurent tugs on Damen’s hair; Damen squeezes Laurent’s hips. He takes it upon himself to bring Laurent closer, the rise and fall of their chests working against each other as Laurent opens his mouth, nipping at Damen’s bottom lip, skimming his tongue over the spot.

A groan sounds from Damen’s chest, and Laurent can feel it in his veins. His laugh is breathless as Damen tugs gently on Laurent’s bottom lip with his teeth; all too soon, Damen backs away from the kiss, his head tilting back as if the sky will grant him back his breath. With their chests pressed tight against each other, Damen can feel the unsteady drumming of a heart against his own.

Laurent can feel a similar drumming as well.

It’s a strange sensation—a second beat against one so familiar and solid, but neither of them mind. Damen’s pants drift to a hum that Laurent reciprocates, his eyes crinkling slightly in an honest smile that Damen feels momentarily blind to. Laurent closes his eyes, the smile still present as he inclines his head to press their foreheads together once again.

“It seems I lied,” Laurent says after a moment.

Damen gives a questioning hum, his thumbs rubbing against Laurent’s hipbones.

Laurent huffs, guides his hands down to Damen’s elbows. “I… was wooed from the beginning… by you.”

A breathless _oh_ leaves Damen’s lips as he pulls back, staring wide-eyed at Laurent’s flushed face. He immediately breaks into a smile when he notices Laurent avoiding his gaze, and there’s a small chuckle before Damen speaks. “Isn’t that a bit ridiculous, though?” he asks.

Laurent squints up at him as if to challenge him, but it looks harmless accompanied by bright eyes and pink cheeks. “I wonder,” Laurent finally says, and the laugh he evokes from Damen is something he could listen to all day, if Damen would let him.

A silent moment passes between them as they stand there under the starry sky, fingertips brushing—almost tickling—at each other’s skin. When Laurent inclines his head, Damen takes it upon himself to bury his face in the soft locks before pulling back, only to brush his lips against Laurent’s forehead. He receives a content hum, and Laurent angles his face upward so Damen’s lips greet closed eyelids.

“Will you put together another bouquet for me?” Laurent asks then, breaking the silence.

Damen’s breath is warm against Laurent’s skin as he laughs. The florist pulls away further, tilts his head as if to consider—though his mind is already made up. “Maybe this time… I can give you two dozen red roses,” Damen wonders aloud, and suddenly he’s wondering if Laurent knows the meaning of his words.

When Damen glances down at Laurent, his face is shaded with embarrassment. He watches as Laurent opens his mouth to speak—but then there’s something about the way his chest swells that makes Damen lean forward on impulse, only to cut Laurent off with a press of his lips. Then Damen’s leaning back, and there’s a hiss of _“what do you think you’re doing—“_ before Laurent’s hands tug him down once more.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


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